Letters from Toronto
by EnlightenedSkye
Summary: Unbeknownst to George, Emily also is having problems with her transition overseas. [Companion piece to Letters from London. Gemily. 9x03 canon divergent. Complete]


A/N: Here's the companion piece to _Letters from London_ , as promised. Sorry for the delay, I am at university, after all. I wanted to speak a little to my personal headcanons for Emily; I personally believe she might be bisexual or demisexual. She seeks immediate and intense emotional connections, which sometimes does not work out for the best. I believe it was her fear of becoming vulnerable in the relationship that drove her away from George. She is a strong woman without trying, and is at her best whenever she lets go, which is exceedingly hard for a Type A personality. I've seen it happen so often in real life as well as in stories.

I went through a troubled period in my life, much like this one, a few years ago. I only wanted to hide from the world and share my problems with no one. However, when I learned to open up and let others listen, the wounds I'd gathered over so many years began to heal. I hope I've accurately portrayed that here.

Unbetaed 9x03 canon divergence, because the past few episodes are completely contrary to what you read here. Rated K+ for what I suppose the MPAA would call "thematic elements". By the way, I don't share Emily's negative opinion of Londoners, nor do I think that homosexuals are sinners. Everyone has good in them. Enjoy, and have a wonderful Thanksgiving!

 **Letters from Toronto**

"All the same, I think we ought to seek a second opinion from another coroner."

Her supervisor was speaking, but that didn't mean Emily was paying him any mind. She continued the arduous task of tending to the body set on her table, bone shears clasped in her palm with a vice like grasp. She was sweating profusely, and her apron was covered in blood. Certainly the detective could see that she was busy.

"The very notion that the man expired of a heart attack _before_ he was ever stabbed is ludicrous, simply ludicrous," he continued, now pacing the length of the morgue. It was evident that he wouldn't leave before his piece was said.

The young woman grimaced, pushing back a strand of hair with the back of her wrist. To suffer quietly in the presence of such a blathering idiot was truly taxing her patience. It was moments like these that she thanked the heavens for the ingrained female virtue of tolerance.

She wanted to say that this kind of thing happened _all the time_ back home, and the circumstances surrounding the victim's death weren't all that unrealistic considering he'd perished during a domestic dispute in which both parties were intoxicated. But these brutish Britons couldn't bring themselves to consider more than the most glaringly obvious of motives.

"If you doubt my work, Detective Harrington, you might as well come out and say it," she ground out, cleanly snapping the neck of a false rib in order to get to the liver.

The stodgy man started as if he'd been dealt a nasty dose of electrical shock. It was as if he simply couldn't fathom that a woman would want to assert herself.

He quickly regained his composure, leaning across the table over the corpse and coming to rest so close to Emily's face that she could smell his foul breath. The tips of his handlebar mustache flittered with every huff of exasperation. "Miss Grace, I will not tolerate such insolence in my station house."

 _So she was a child now?_ Locking her jaw and offering him the sweetest smile she could muster, she replied, "It's _Doctor_ Grace."

-0-

Ten minutes later, Emily was en route to her flat, having been sent home for the day.

At first, her walk had been brisk, her eyes trained at the ground. Really, if just _one more_ clumsy man ran into her today, she thought she might explode. It was moments like these that made her regret leaving her home in Canada. At every turn, she had become accustomed to the sniveling, power hungry, money grubbing behavior of the most disgusting men imaginable. She was seldom respected by the men of the stationhouse where she was employed, neither as a woman nor as a doctor. Why, within the first week the detective was attempting to make passes at her! She was being whistled at on the streets by perfect strangers! So much for the merry, progressive land of Great Britain!

She'd even been turned out by the London suffragettes, who surprisingly weren't at all shocked that she was a sapphist, but were disinclined to admit her now that she'd been implicated in a murder investigation. Their organization didn't need scandal, they'd said, and shut the door in her face. It seemed that her name had been blacklisted within every major suffragette circle in the city.

Back in Toronto, she'd had fellowship with her fellow woman. Now, she couldn't say the same. The fashionable types turned their noses up at her plain overseas style, while the ones that were supposed to be her peers averted their eyes and pretended not to notice her. Consequently, Emily's life in London was a lonely one, supplemented by countless evenings sitting alone in her flat reading novels and drowning flask after flask of champagne. She'd alternate spending her nights in her own bedroom and the one that was to belong to Lillian, keeping the curtains drawn and lights low like a woman in mourning. Which, in a matter of speaking, she was.

The more time that passed, the less Emily empathized with Lillian's plight. How much of her affection had been faked in order to get herself in a situation comfortable enough to leave the country? Had their entire relationship just been a ruse?

 _Perhaps it had._ Dr. Grace, a woman of strength and dignity, slowly realized that she had been used. Her time with Lillian had been glorious in the good times, bringing light to a part of herself that until now she'd kept under wraps. The discovery of her lover's deception signaled a loss of control, one not unlike when she'd moved into Toronto and taken up the job of coroner. The first night in her boarding house, she'd felt so hopeless, so alone, that it was all she could do not to swaddle herself in a blanket and weep.

Some evenings, the previous one included, she'd depart the morgue only to find the streets swathed in chilly downpour. Emily often felt compelled to seek shelter in one of the many police bars that dotted the streets uptown, where she'd opt to turn up her collar and sit at the corner booth. There, no one would bother her save for the waitress tending her customers, and she could engage in a bit of humble people watching.

It was something she used to do with George. They'd sit on a bench in the park and monitor the comings and goings of people on the path, imagining grand stories for their lives and assuming high-pitched falsettos in an imitation of what they simply had to sound like. They spent many afternoons thusly, his hand clandestinely resting on her hip between the folds of her overcoat. It was a simpler, _happier_ time.

Eyes slitted over the rim of her mug, Emily watched the men and women of London socialize, seeing their profiles warp and cross each other until they all morphed into one. Her mother, who had died when she was but nine years old, went to the grave denouncing the actions of these supposedly _wicked_ homosexuals. If only she could see her precious, purely hearted daughter now.

It was no use hiding these thoughts, the same notions that she'd once considered shameful. Dr. Grace found both the masculine and feminine form aesthetically pleasing; and while she did enjoy the male form, all lean muscle and chiseled jaw, she couldn't help that her ears would perk up at the sound of a woman's melodious laugh. It was all too confusing. Emily secretly hoped that she would never make sense of it.

Something seized hold of her sleeve and tugged. She was about to wheel around and use her handbag to smite the man into oblivion who had dared to broach her personal space, but all that stood before her now was a lovely cherub of a child, eyes twinkling and smile threatening to be overtaken by a pair of chubby cheeks.

"Es'cuse me, madam, but me boss wants to have some of 'is best stock handed out this evening. E've got a shop on the next street over, ya see, an' I'm suppose' to say…" he began, stumbling over his words and making his cockney accent come out even more pronounced.

Emily waited patiently, even squatting down slightly to meet the boy at eye level. He was adorable, really, and happened to be the first stroke of light in her otherwise dreary afternoon.

Finally the child located the grubby scrap of paper in his pocket, cleared his throat, and read with a great deal of aplomb: "A red rose for dah loveliest lady in awl dah land. Only ten pence a dozen at Schulyer's Flower Garden." Then, reaching into his pack, he produced a flower that was in such a wilted and pitiful state that Emily couldn't help but smile.

Suddenly, in her mind's eye, she was in another place entirely. She'd just finished with her last autopsy for the evening, and was putting the finishing touches on her report for the detective. The lights were turned low, and one of the men trapped in Julia's old records was wailing about his lost love. Her eyes burned, and a yawn was beginning to build up in her throat. Perhaps she could indulge herself in a moment of respite...

Stretching luxuriantly, she was surprised to feel a feather-light touch of affection on her elbow. George was there, holding a single bloom and beaming from ear to ear.

"I got the last one, Emily. I was running late this morning, you see, because of a fellow resident of my boarding house that simply wouldn't leave the lavatory in a timely manner. But I made it, and I've been waiting all day to give it to you," he babbled excitedly, holding his gift out to her.

She accepted it and inhaled deeply. Its scent was a bit muddled with heaven knew what else the shop had been using to preserve it, but she could still keenly sense the bright notes of the meadow.

"I'm flattered," she said, "but whatever could be the occasion for such a lovely gift?"

His expression fell and he shuffled from foot to foot. "Why, Emily, it's St. Valentine's Day."

Back in the present day, Dr. Grace had thanked the boy and continued on her way. To the casual passerby, her expression appeared pained, as if something was weighing heavily on her mind. And it was. Silently, she reminded herself to stop by the stationery store on her way home.

-0-

Several hours later, just as the sun was beginning to surrender its defensive position on the horizon, Emily found herself alone in her flat, an empty liquor tumbler in her palm. On her desk, a piece of paper lay unwritten upon, save for an introductory phrase.

 _Dear George…_

She fell back onto her bed, catching the last few wayward drops of whiskey on her tongue. She'd already drunk her fill, so much that she would have ordinarily become intoxicated. But instead she felt just as mentally sharp as she would have normally been, save for the deep, aching sensation of grief gripping her heart. Perhaps this was what drove alcoholics to drink.

He'd grown to have an aversion to taverns and drink, and it took Emily months to understand why. There were faint memories of an underground ragtime tavern, and an empty piano, and Leslie Garland sitting by her side…

Suddenly the glass left her fingers and shattered against the wall in several dozen pieces. Emily sat up and gasped in a manner characteristic of one close to tears. What had happened to her? She'd wanted to be strong, and independent, so much so that she wouldn't need the companionship of any other. But somewhere her plan had gone awry. She couldn't go through life an island, holding everyone that tried to get close to her at arm's length. Perhaps if she'd let herself be vulnerable, even if it was only behind closed doors with the ones she loved, much of her agony could have been avoided.

Stumbling to her feet, Emily retrieved the Kodak box camera from her desk drawer. It had come into her hands at considerable expense, but she had believed that it would soon tender itself back in investment. She'd planned to take photographs of her fellow suffragettes in action and develop them, before sending the images off to the newspapers. It would have helped the cause.

Perhaps it still would. Throwing up the sash, Emily proceeded to place the heavy contraption on the windowsill. A small part of her feared that its balance would be upset and it would tumble to the street below, but she couldn't bear to miss the perfect opportunity. The sun was setting, and the lighting was perfect.

Lillian's flat was closer to Trafalgar Square than she'd let on. From the window in her bedroom, she could just see the landmark in profile. The stately forms of the stone lions were barely in the frame, but she could just make out the pedestrians traversing the cobbled platforms below. Emily had made a habit of checking up on the city center every night before she turned in, and was continually relieved to see that London continued to move forward, even if she was trapped in a not too distant time in the past. She dearly hoped her constable would understand the significance.

After preparing the exposure and waiting the customary moment for the film to stain, Emily returned to her desk and scribbled out an increasingly vague and slightly exaggerated note as to her state of affairs in London. She briefly entertained the notion of spilling her heart out to her former lover, but feared that she'd put her foot in it like she'd done so many times before. George had such an ability to read between the lines, to pull such outlandish conclusions out of negligible information. Emily could only hope he could do the very same now.

-0-

Dr. Grace hadn't expected such a fast turn around on her letter. It had reached her in the throes of another case, the mailman maneuvering piles of medical texts on the floor to complete the delivery. Emily had let it sit untouched for almost an hour, and it was only after she'd finished every other conceivable task for the evening that she'd broken the seal on the envelope.

She observed the shadow of ink from the opposite side of the paper, took a deep breath, and unfolded it.

It had taken less than twenty four hours to make her decision. Fortunately for her, a Danish passenger steamer bound for Nova Scotia was set to leave St. Katharine Docks the following afternoon. S _he'd have to ride in coach with the common folk until they reached Portsmouth_ , the ticket seller had informed her, _did she realize that?_ And she'd replied, _yes, she most certainly did,_ but didn't care in the slightest. The price had been exorbitant upon such late notice, nearly every pound that she'd earned in her short time in London, but that didn't matter either.

She'd proceeded to the morgue that morning as usual, but instead of asking her assistants to prepare a fresh slab for today's unfortunates, her tools and books were to be packed up and placed in the walkway that led out into the alleyway facing the station house. It took no time at all for word to travel that the constabulary would once again be short a coroner, and the detective had shown up, quite red in the face, demanding to know just what in the world she thought she was doing.

"Consider this my two week's notice, Mr. Harrington," she'd replied calmly, the corners of her lips twitching up in a hint of a smile. "In two weeks, you're going to notice that I haven't been here in that same amount of time."

And Emily had left that dastardly man to sputter and shout, climbing into a hired car waiting for her outside and leaving once and for all. As they neared the docks, she began to notice the briny scent of seawater and filth that could only come from the River Thames. But it might as well have reeked of meadow flowers, for her spirits were irrepressibly high.

As she stood before the ship, watching the deckhands lower the walkway, she couldn't help but bob up and down on her toes. So it was true. George loved her, and he was willing to give their relationship a second, or third, or fourth chance. But she knew that she wouldn't need any of those extra tries, for this time she was prepared to do anything to make it work.

The footman picked up on her anticipation and shouldered the two heaviest of her carpet bags, joining the rest of the hired help near the makeshift bridge that would take them down into the cargo hold. Emily wanted to board as soon as possible, for the sooner that would happen, the sooner she would be home once again. She was prepared to ask George why he'd chosen to give her another chance, and why he'd forgiven her after all he'd been through. How foolish she'd been, thinking she could get through this alone! Of course he would understand, he always would.

She wanted to weep for desperation or joy, and she couldn't for the life of her make sense of which one it was. But there would be time to happiness and a time for pain, as long as the earth continued its endless circle around the sun. For the first time in a long time, she had hope. She had faith.

And, most importantly, Dr. Emily Grace was on her way home.

 **The End**


End file.
